


How Not To Be Seen

by Catchclaw



Series: White Knuckles [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, Kissing in Public, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys stop at a scenic overlook on the way to a gig--only to find that they're the ones getting stared at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not To Be Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after the _Abacab_ series ends, but you need not have read that to jump in here, if you wish.

Dean hates having his picture taken.

Even before Hendrickson, before the police and the FBI. He's always been camera-shy. Not that we took a lot pictures growing up. Hell, I don't think we ever owned a camera. But there was always somebody at a party, at a state park, by the side of some scenic highway taking pictures. Making memories, or whatever. Manufacturing proof of where they were, where they'd been. As if whatever was in their heads wasn't good enough. Wouldn't stand up in court.

So he got really good at stepping in, stepping up when some happy family would be arguing in that god-we're-so-tired-of-each-other sort of way, after eight hours in the car, over who would take the damn photo, who'd have to disentangle themselves from Aunt Myrtle and the cousins and step back, frame the whole clan within the lens and snap.

Dean's always been the one to intervene, to sidle over with a smile and hold out his hand, to say: here, let me do it. And then he joshes with the kids and gives the mom his best choir boy smile and winks at the grandmother and herds them all into the perfect pose, gets them all laughing and closes the shutter once twice three times. And by the time it's done, they're offering him fried chicken and iced tea and the hand of their firstborn and he always begs off, grinning, and makes his way back to me.

He's in a hundred photo albums, easy, a part of other people's memories: a little piece of him stuck in their minds, in their stories of that trip out West that summer, of that nice boy at the park who took our picture.

But right now he's just pissing me off with this glad-handing routine. I'm ready to be on the road again, already.

See, I made the mistake of finding this article online about a "haunted" house down I-81 that burned down. Showed it to him at breakfast.

"So?" he asked through a mouthful of pancakes.

"So," I said, high and tight. "See, this was the second place like this that the owner's lost to fire."

"Sounds like an insurance thing, Banacek," he said, swallowing, reaching for his coffee.

I sighed.

"Did I mention that both places went up 10 years apart? Exactly? Like, to the day?"

He looked up.

"Ok. Maybe there's something there, but--"

I dropped the printout over his plate. Pointed.

"Wait," he said, peering. "Is that Stonehenge?"

"Foamhenge," I corrected, laying down the ace. "The guy owns that, too; it's right next to the place that just burned down."

I looked over and yep, there was the Spinal Tap spinning in his face.

"Dude," he said. "Hurry up and finish your frit-tatas or whatever. We're burning daylight here, Sam."

And, as always, he wants to get there--wherever there is--as fast as he can, right the fuck now. So when I insisted that he pull over here, at this overlook, after driving like eight hours today with no breaks, he was a complete ass about it. Went through his name-calling rolodex and generally acted like a dick for the few miles he had to drive off the interstate to get here.

But when things opened up around us, below us, this valley appearing out of nowhere, like a mirage, even he was a little impressed.

We got out and cracked a beer and then he saw that family over there struggling to get their memory-making just right and now I've been standing in the sun for 20 minutes by myself, watching him make time with people we'll never see again.

I'm kind of envious of his ability to do that, honestly. Me, when I have the status, the badge or the suit or whatever, I can play that role, can slip into Understanding Sammy mode and relate to people who are hurting, who need our help.

But everyday people? People who think they're happy and don't question it? People who accept the way things are, who've never wanted things to change, who've never even thought to want that? I can't talk to them.

Jess was like him, that way. She could make friends with people on the bus, in line at the grocery school, with some awkward sophomore at a party.

With me.

I watch Dean finally pull himself away from a middle-aged woman, disentangle himself from a couple of tow-headed kids. Everybody's laughing and smiling and apparently he's a big freaking hit with these people. A big guy in a trucker hat gives him a slap on the back. Shakes his hand, hard. More laugher, some waving, and he starts strutting back towards me.

I ignore him. Turn my attention to my beer.

"They're from Alabama," he says, leaning his hip on the door, squinting up at me. "On their way to a family reunion or some shit up in Maine."

"Huh," I say, peering down the neck of the bottle. Feeling the weight of not enough beer left in my hand.

His fingers slide over mine as he snatches the bottle away, tips it back and down his throat before I can respond.

I make a face and he laughs, taps the sweaty bottle against my arm, grinning. "C'mon, Sammy," he says, his smile finding my eyes. "Y'weren't gonna drink it anyway."

And no, I wasn't, "but that's not the point," I huff. "I might've. But you just assumed that you--"

"Knew better? Yeah, I did," he says. Smug.

I cross my arms and scowl because, god. He is such an ass.

"Dean," I start, seriously, "you have like no respect for my stuff, for what's mine or--"

And he swallows the next word. And the next. Slides his tongue between my lips, catches my hip in his hand. Pushes me back against the door. Kisses me until my breath stutters.

He pulls away but keeps his mouth right there, right next to mine.

"I respect your stuff plenty," he hums, his hand brushing my cock and trust him to reach for the totally obvious innuendo, to take the easiest route to--fuck!

He squeezes a little, just enough to prove he's been there, enough to make me blush, and then curls away, rests his back against the frame.

"Uh," I stutter.

"Yup," he says, with that cat-canary smile that I like way too much. "Love it when you use big words like that, Sam."

And there's a commotion, suddenly, back on the other side of the picnic tables. I look up and see all those nice people from Alabama on their way to Maine staring at us, open-mouthed and pointing. Somebody's shouting something about the children and a woman is herding the little kids somewhere, anywhere away from us.

"Ah," Dean says slowly. Like he's just remembered. "I told them you were my brother."

"I am your--" I start to say and then oh. Oh yeah. Right.

Some dude--the one who offered Dean his hand, slapped him on the back--is stalking our way, I realize like a split-second later, after Dean drops the beer bottle and shoots around the hood. Flings open the door.

"Get in the car!" he barks, and I hop in, take one last look at the scenery because god, it's pretty, just before Dean peels out, showering the stalky dude with dirt and gravel.

He shakes his fist at us in the rearview mirror, shouting something that's lost in Dean's howls of laughter, so loud that they that shake his body, echo through the backseat, bounce out into the sunlight and the open air.

"Oh my god," he wheezes. "Sammy. Did you see the look on his face?"

"We're a terrible influence on the children, Dean," I deadpan, just getting it out before I start hooting, so hard that I pitch over, fall into him a little.

And it's kind of great, that moment.

Us against the world, the world that travels in RVs and thumps bibles and is generally disapproving of the whole of Western civilization.

I feel like that's an enemy we can actually defeat.

He leans back behind the wheel, snickering.

"Man," he says, "if I knew that they'd freak out like that, I woulda given 'em their money's worth, you know?"

And I know enough, know this new thing between us well enough not to look at him. To turn my head out the window and breathe deep, let the smell of honeysuckle come all the way in, push into my body and settle into my hips. My mouth. Somewhere where I can find it again, later. So I can give it to Dean.

"Uh huh," I say, breathing in. Not looking at him.

He laughs again, but this time it's low in his chest. Quieter.

"Not takin' the bait, huh?" he asks. A little hopeful.

"Not now," I say, still not looking at him. Feeling the sun warm and full in my face.

"Mmmm," he says. "Ok."

There's silence for a minute, not the bad kind but one that's comfortable. Easy.

But then he reaches for the radio, turns it up way too loud, way too fast, and starts howling along with Axl Rose. I pull my head up, look over, and he's shrieking away and bobbing his head and, god, he looks so freaking happy. Like he's let everything go for awhile. Like he's just happy to be where he is for now. With his music. His baby. With me.

He's framed by the window, the light shooting over my shoulders and onto his face and it's a perfect snapshot of him, of how I like to think of him. Of how I remembered him while I was away.

Of how I'll remember him if I ever have to leave again.

But for now I just lean back, rest my head against the door and watch him act like a complete idiot, bouncing around and singing at the top of his lungs.

He turns his head, smiles, and now I'm the one who's happy.


End file.
